


A Bed of Earth

by IgnorantArmies



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The battle of the five armies - Fandom, battle of the five armies - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Gen, M/M, Other, Sad Fluff, The Acorn, bagginshield, is that a thing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 10:30:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7432932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IgnorantArmies/pseuds/IgnorantArmies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How The Battle of the Five Armies should have ended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bed of Earth

Bilbo returned home to an empty, dusty hobbit hole. His over-eager neighbours have cleared the place, save for a few tattered books and the portraits of his parents. Gently, carefully, he replaced the frames above the mantelpiece and let out a little sigh - home was home, no matter how empty. The work it would take to sort everything out seemed far less insurmountable than outwitting a dragon or finding a keyhole in the face of a mountain. And Gandalf was right - he was different, now that he’d returned - so perhaps it was best that Bag End had a fresh start, too.

The warmth of the sun crept through the window behind him and out of habit, Bilbo turned to admire his garden. Thirteen months had not been wasted by the weeds and the rabbits - his meticulous lawn was riddled with thistles and dandelions; the beds were tangled with bind weed; his vegetable patch had become a mass of overenthusiastic fennel, waving gently in the breeze. It reminded him a little of Beorn’s garden - wild and unabated - beautiful in its chaos, especially when there wasn’t a giant bear roaming through it.

He rocked on his heels and tucked his fingers into his pockets. He would tackle the garden first, he decided. It felt strange to be indoors after so many months travelling and sleeping under the sky. As he made the decision, his fingertips brushed something round in his pocket, something smooth and cool, something he often felt for when he needed reassurance or strength. He drew it out and held it up to the sunlight. The acorn felt heavy in his palm, as if it was full up with memories of its journey through goblin caves and elven dungeons and rapid rivers and golden hoards and battlefields of ice and blood and all the way home again. Full of promises.

Out in the garden his hands brushed through the foliage, seeking out a spare patch of soil, until he found just the right place - sheltered from the wind but open to the light. And if the seed grew straight, the oak would stand right in the centre of the view through the window as he sat in his armchair by the fire. He dug his fingers into the dirt, soft and rich and ripe, nestling the acorn into its bed and tucking it up again with a satisfied pat.

“There,” he whispered, “Now you have a new home.”

Within days, a seedling had sprouted. 

Within weeks, he had re-ordered the garden around it, circling the sacred spot with bricks and a knot of flowering beds. All paths led to the fragile little tree. 

The following year he built a bench beside it, and spent the summer reading his maps, smoking his pipe, and looking out over Hobbiton for the tell-tale sight of a wizard’s hat. 

By the time Frodo came to stay, and plans for Bilbo’s one-hundred-and-eleventh birthday party were well underway, the oak had grown taller than any other in his garden. Thirteen branches stood out from the main trunk, though the central three stood proudest of all, offering up the lion’s share of acorns each year and sending the squirrels into rapturous dances through its leaves.

He still reached in his pocket for the acorn, sometimes, but what he found was not the same. He took it out now, as the sun dipped low above the hills. The metal felt heavy too, but not with the memory of adventure. Something much worse sat within its weight. Something timeless and dark. The sunlight glinted on its surface and he resisted the urge to slip it over his finger, clasping it tightly in his fist instead. He wore the ring less and less these days, afraid of the whispering lures he found there. Soon he would leave it behind. Soon he would disappear without it.

But his tree - Thorin’s tree - would stand forever.


End file.
